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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620441">lavender for sleep, sandalwood for focus</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/any_open_eye/pseuds/any_open_eye'>any_open_eye</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Consent Issues, Injury, M/M, Sort of? - Freeform, sleep spells</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:21:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,450</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620441</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/any_open_eye/pseuds/any_open_eye</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Geralt! It’s me!” Jaskier yelps and braces for the crackle and snap of bones, but all Geralt manages is a weak squeeze before his fingers slip away.</p><p>“Jaskier..?” A pair of burnished gold eyes that to this day Jaskier still has not managed to accurately describe in words. “Why do I feel like I’m made of rocks?”</p><p>(Geralt sustains a magical injury and Jaskier has to fix him *creatively*)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>365</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>lavender for sleep, sandalwood for focus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mhcrazy/gifts">mhcrazy</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Back at it again writing magical-induced boning with these two. This time it's Geralt's turn.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier is sure he’s ready. </p><p>His sword is sharp and perfectly weighted. His limbs are loose and the blood is flowing. Hell, he’s even wearing the right boots. Geralt had flatly refused to teach him any swordplay at all until he was properly outfitted. </p><p>
  <i>“Start out the right way so you don’t have to unlearn bad habits.”</i>
</p><p>Jaskier’s father had said something in the same vein the times he’d caught him sneaking into haylofts with the local girls. <i>Virtue isn’t hard. It just takes rigorous practice.</i> The only things Jaskier has ever really applied himself to—besides the lute, of course—are pickpocketing and cunnilingus. Luckily he’s far better at the latter than the former, since the former landed him in a jail cell and the latter got him out of it. Praise be to Cintran guardswomen and their slippery sense of justice. </p><p>Jaskier had babbled through this during his lessons with Geralt, which is perhaps why it’s coming flooding back now, when he is facing down a hungry monster with nothing but a few pathetic weeks of training between himself and certain death. Honestly, what good is a sharp bit of metal against a manticore? At least Geralt has two swords. Jaskier doesn’t have two swords. And he might as well not have any swords at all, considering how he immediately drops his and starts running. </p><p>“Fuck! Geralt! It’s awake! It isn’t supposed to be awake! It’s fucking nocturnal!” </p><p>From a distance, Roach whinnies. Geralt is on the other side of the thicket; he’d been taking the beast on from the front. Jaskier had just been covering the rear.</p><p>“You won’t see any action, I assure you,” Geralt had told him. “You’re just here as a—.” </p><p>“Please don’t say diversion,” Jaskier had begged. “I’ve been a diversion before and it doesn’t agree with me.” </p><p>But as soon as he’d entered the thicket, there it was. The manticore, roaring feline head and ragged beating wings big enough to blot out the sky. The spikes on its tail dripping poison. </p><p>In the end it’s probably a boon that Jaskier loses his sword; when his ankle turns on a loose stone at least he doesn’t shear off his own balls. </p><p>He hits the ground with a bone-shaking slam, knocking the breath out of himself. It would be just like him to die on his first official beast hunt. The manticore roars, its reeking breath washing over him, and he covers his head, as if it won’t just bite his hands off. </p><p>“Fuck. Fuck!” </p><p>Jaskier does not lose his head or his hands. They are all still attached to his body. He might scream. The monster definitely screams, a thrashing whirlwind of spittle and hot breath. Jaskier raises his head, almost afraid that if he breaks the moment the hammer will fall. He looks just in time to see a glimmering arc of a sword, Geralt huge and magnificent on the back of the manticore. Even through the fear, Jaskier feels a hard pulse of excitement, tingling euphoria slicing bright inside him. </p><p>Hot blood hits the dirt. The sun gleams on Geralt’s hair. “Geralt—!” </p><p>“Jaskier—.” Geralt’s voice is compressed in concentration. “Get back!” </p><p>Jaskier scrambles backward, Geralt’s command moving his limbs like magic. The manticore hits the ground, and Geralt hits the ground right after it. They have spent enough time fighting together (well, Geralt fighting and Jaskier offering invaluable encouragement) for Jaskier to be able to predict his rhythms. How he moves, how he engages. His patterns of attack. He’d surprised Geralt with his ability to clock his movements when they’d begun sparring. </p><p>“I’ve an artist’s keen eye,” he’d said, and Geralt had responded, “Hm.” </p><p>At any rate, Jaskier knows that when the witcher falls from any height, he will curl into a ball and roll, far more gracefully than a man his size really should be capable of, before popping up like a spring. Today he doesn’t. He hits the dust shoulder first, sword knocked from his hand. Luckily, the manticore falls as well, seeing as how it is missing its head. </p><p>“Yes!” Jaskier rabbits to his feet, all fear forgotten, his flush of victory admittedly disproportionate to the amount he had contributed, but he doubts Geralt will fault him for it. He is here to herald his great deeds, after all. “That was disgusting! Absolutely, you really—Geralt?” </p><p>Geralt grunts and rolls over onto his back. He bends his left leg and then unbends it. He is staring up at the sky with a terrific frown, as if he’d like to have a word with whoever put it up there. </p><p>“Geralt, are you alright? Pick up your sword, butter-mitts! What if it wakes up? Well.” Jaskier puts his hands on his hips and surveys the headless corpse. “Not much chance of that. But what if it has a friend? A mate?” Geralt says nothing. The first stirrings of worry start in Jaskier like ice forming on top of a lake. “Geralt, what hurts, could you please just—.” </p><p>He stiffens at a creak of tack and soft footfalls, but it’s just Roach. “Oh, good. You’re here.” </p><p>Roach snorts. </p><p>“What do I...gods dammit, Geralt.” </p><p>Roach snorts again. He waves her off and starts a methodical pat-down of Geralt’s body, checking for injuries, unsure of exactly what he’s looking for. He supposes he’ll know when he sticks his fingers into an open wound. </p><p>There—three puncture marks in the meat of his calf, the skin around them puffy and inflamed. Jaskier remembers the tail. </p><p>“It got you good, that’s for sure.” </p><p>Geralt's eyes flutter open. "Yes," he manages."  </p><p>“Is it—.” Jaskier’s mouth tastes like ashes. “Is it fatal?” </p><p>Geralt’s hair is spread out in the dust like a puddle of molten silver. “Not for me—I.” He bites off as he’s shaken by a hard convulsion. </p><p>“Geralt.” Jaskier’s fingers curl into impotent fists. The witcher is back to looking at the sky, eyes glassy. Jaskier wonders if he should slap him awake again. He needs to get him out of this fucking forest. </p><p>Jaskier looks from Roach, who stands at an impressive 16 hands, to the messy, muscular sprawl of the witcher in the dirt, and back again. “No chance of you kneeling down, is there?” He asks her. “Make things a little easier?” </p><p>Roach watches him skeptically. </p><p>“Not for me. Do it for him.” He points down at Geralt.</p><p>Another blink. </p><p>In the end he is forced to lead Roach over to a stump, slinging one of Geralt’s arms over his shoulders, feeling his own spine and ribs protest as he hauls him to his feet. Luckily, the change in elevation seems to rouse him a bit, and he gets on Roach’s back more or less under his own power. His eyes slide to half-mast, forehead resting against the horse's neck as he mumbles something, stroking his knuckles over her glossy coat. Whatever it is he’s saying is probably the reason Jaskier is allowed to mount up behind Geralt. </p><p>The nearest town is almost two day’s ride, but Jaskier remembers an inn not too far from here. Their progress is slow, Jaskier hesitant to kick Roach into anything more than a plodding walk, afraid of jarring Geralt off her back. They’ve never ridden pillion before, but at least Roach seems to bear up under the weight well enough. </p><p>The adrenaline of the fight is leaving Jaskier’s body in waves, leaving him chilled and exhausted to his bones. He tries to fill the silence; he’s used to being both halves of the conversation, but this is different. Before he’d never noticed how much he counts on Geralt’s quiet, consternated input. A raised brow, a low snort, his mouth twisted up in amused disgust. Every so often he’d even let out a grunting laugh, which always made Jaskier glow with satisfaction in the way usually only a standing ovation could. </p><p>Heat pours of Geralt's skin. Jaskier tightens his arms around him, searching across his chest with his palm until he finds his heartbeat. He holds on. </p><p>--</p><p>A summer storm threatens as they limp into the inn-yard, the edges of the sky seething with a purple-grey intent. The innkeeper meets them, or rather, sits on a barrel smoking a pipe while Jaskier slides off Roach’s back, body aching, neck stiff with worry. </p><p>“Graveyard’s on the far side of town,” she says, tapping ash. </p><p>Jaskier yelps as pain radiates up his spine as he takes a step. He completely takes back every time he'd begged Geralt to let him ride. “What?” </p><p>“We don’t put up corpses,” the innkeeper says. “Especially not witcher corpses.” </p><p>“He isn’t a corpse,” Jaskier says testily. “And we can pay.” </p><p>Her mouth twists up thoughtfully. </p><p>“You won’t even know we’re here, and by the way—” Thunder rolls out an exclamation. Jaskier wishes it could have waited for a more dramatic moment. His voice jumps an octave, annoyance swelling in his lungs. “—I think it’s a bit rich to bar a man who does nothing but help people. He killed a manticore for all of you.” </p><p>The innkeeper takes another pull on her pipe. Her hair is shorn short and one of her eyes is an unnerving milky-white, pupil roving ceaselessly. She does absolutely nothing to hide it. Jaskier would be a bit smitten with her if he wasn’t experiencing an excess of stress at the moment, and if she wasn’t the current cause of that stress. </p><p>“Fine,” she says, and hops down from the barrel. She barely comes up to Jaskier’s chin, and could be anywhere between 25 and 40. “But I’ll be taking payment up front, and you’ll pay for a room with a bath.” Her good eye flicks to Geralt, slumped over Roach’s back. “He’s filthy.” </p><p>“He isn’t,” Jaskier protests, although he supposes that by the general populace’s approximation, covered in mud is enough. Considering the lack of blood and viscera, Jaskier counts this as perhaps one of the cleanest hunts in a while. “Fine. Yes. Whatever you want.” </p><p>Once the two of them are installed in the inn’s largest and most heinously overpriced room, Jaskier finally allows himself a moment to fall to dramatic pieces. He slides down the wall and buries his face in his hands, heart hammering up into his throat hard enough to choke on. The corners of his eyes burn. If he was in a play, the crowd would be silent, waiting for him to begin his monologue. He would exposit on how he’d always known this day would come, how he’d only been living on borrowed time. How no life spent hunting monsters could ever feasibly last longer than a few years. </p><p>And yet he always imagined he’d be the one the monster gulped down, not Geralt. </p><p>Having got it out of his system, he picks himself back up and sees what can be done. </p><p>Geralt is breathing evenly, and although his heartbeat is slow, it holds steady. He is unresponsive, though, and when Jaskier gets his boots and breeches off, the punctures look worse than they did before. He’d thought that witchers were immune to poison. Or maybe he’d just assumed it. It is impossible to imagine Geralt succumbing to anything short of decapitation. </p><p>He’s gotten Geralt stripped of the rest of his clothes by the time the innkeeper brings up hot water for the bath. He briefly considers throwing a sheet over his nether regions, but decides that if she’s concerned with modesty she shouldn’t have moaned about the mud. </p><p>She doesn't spare Geralt's bare ass a second glance, just rolls rolls up her sleeves, clean muscles standing out in her arms. Again, Jaskier thinks that under usual circumstances he would have found her hard to resist. She helps him muscle Geralt into the bath. He isn’t sure how he is going to get him out again, but he’ll cross that bridge when it comes. </p><p>After she leaves, Jaskier goes through their supplies with a dubious eye. He’s never had to bring the witcher to a physician before-—he doesn’t even know if it would do any good. Jaskier has seen him recover from much worse, but before he’d always been conscious and able to assure him he’s fine. </p><p>He tries to recall Geralt’s lessons, any of them at all. Ginger root for nausea, lavender for sleeplessness, sandalwood for focus, turmeric for an open wound. Nothing to treat manticore poison. He pours verbena oil into the bath. If nothing else, it should help with the inflammation. </p><p>He stands beside the tub and scrubs the worst of the road off himself, stripping down to shirtsleeves and watching out of the corner of his eye for any signs of life. Geralt’s hair has gotten long, the ends floating on the surface of the water like duckweed. Jaskier wonders if a story about a water nymph would go over well. Or...a god. A god of the water who only emerged in the moonlight, and then only to the pure of heart. Yes, that’s good. Vague enough for the audience to fill in whatever they’d like. A god with hair the color of seafoam and eyes like coins...no, not coins.. There’s no coins in the ocean. Or, as far as he knows. He’s never seen the ocean. </p><p>He hums a few bars to himself, trying to drive the shaking anxiety from his chest. His hands are trembling and he clenches them a few times. Geralt will be fine. He’s a witcher. He is designed to fight manitcores. He’ll be fine. </p><p>But what if he isn’t? </p><p>Jaskier rings out the cloth and hangs it on the edge of the tub. He is no stranger to losing everything. That’s the danger of going through life with very little to tie you down. One slip, and it’s gone. He’s always heartbroken when it happens, inconsolable for a time. But it always comes along with a certain measure of relief. A lifting of the burden of attachment. The agony of needing someone to ensure your happiness. </p><p>Jaskier falls in love easily, and out of it more easily still. </p><p>It’s not as if Geralt has ever been an easy traveling companion, or a kind one. God knows Jaskier has spent enough nights in sulky silence from some snapped rebuke, Geralt taking out his mood on his pet bard because he is the only one within biting distance. But when he imagines losing Geralt, sickness builds inside him, radiating out through his limbs like a firepath. He’d survive it, but he isn’t sure at what cost. Losing Geralt wouldn’t be like unlacing a sleeve, it would be like cutting off an arm. The idea of him going where Jaskier can’t follow...Jaskier doesn’t even want to write a song about it, and there has never been a significant event in his life—romance or tragedy—that he hasn’t mined for material. </p><p>“Geralt, come on.” Jaskier kneels down opposite Geralt, the way he had that first day he’d allowed him close enough to rub salve into a nasty burn across his back and thighs. “You don’t want me writing a song about your epic demise at the hands of an overgrown chicken-lion, do you? I’ll make it dramatic and heroic. You’ll hate it.” </p><p>Geralt says nothing. His chest rises and falls. Jaskier lets the silence press down on him, nothing but the witcher’s soft breaths and the creaking of the building settling in the wind. Jaskier thinks, as he drifts off, that it’s the most quiet he’s ever heard a public house in a long time, especially in the evening. </p><p>-</p><p>Upon waking the first thing Jaskier notices is that he should not have fallen asleep in a dead slump against a wooden tub. Then he immediately senses that something is different. More than something. </p><p>The bath is empty. For a moment hope expands in his chest as he sees him laid out much like before, except this time his hair is damp and his leg is neatly bandaged. </p><p>“Geralt?” </p><p>Nothing. </p><p>“Geralt, did you do that? I couldn’t find the dressings, they—.” Jaskier pushes himself up, his back protesting. He really is getting old. “—Are you awake?” </p><p>He isn’t. Who moved him, then? The innkeeper? But she could hardly have heaved a full grown man up, let alone Geralt, who is more like two full-grown men, each of them holding a cat. Perhaps if she’d gotten some help. From who, then? Jaskier hasn’t seen a single blasted soul here apart from them, not even in the inn’s common room. He’s heard nothing, not from the kitchens or the other bedrooms. </p><p>He doesn’t want to leave Geralt alone, but he has no other option. He hesitates for a moment, before grabbing his sword and stealing down to the front room. The fire burns high in the grate, tables scrubbed and empty. </p><p>The innkeeper laughs when he emerges into the warm, breezy evening. The sun has set but the scent of it is still alive in the soil and the flat rocks of the courtyard. </p><p>“Don’t stick yourself with it,” she says, as Jaskier finally fumbles his sword onto his belt. She’s back in the same place as before, smoking the same pipe, blowing the same lopsided smoke rings. She watches Jasper through her milky eye. </p><p>Jaskier rather feels the way he had when the manticore was staring him down. “You aren’t an innkeeper, are you?” </p><p>Her mouth curls around the stem of her pipe. “Well. I am now. This is an inn and I’m keeping it.” </p><p>"But it isn't yours." </p><p>She shrugs. “Not originally.” </p><p>“What happened to the owners?” </p><p>“I happened.” </p><p>The wind tousles Jaskier’s hair. A strange weightlessness comes over him—he doesn’t know if it’s fear or simple exhaustion. “What are you?” </p><p>She tilts her head. “What are <i>you?</i>” </p><p>“A bard, actually.” </p><p>“What’s a bard doing lugging around a wounded witcher? What’s a witcher got to do with a bard?” </p><p>Jaskier says, “We’re friends.” </p><p>“Interesting.” </p><p>She sounds as if she really does find it interesting. Jaskier doesn’t take it as encouragement. “I figure the tales would have reached here by now.” His songs and stories of the White Wolf, Butcher of Blavikan usually precede them by a few weeks, at least. </p><p>The not-an-inkeeper tips her head back into the breeze. “I don’t get out much.” </p><p>Jaskier wonders if he could reach the village if he started running. He never would, of course. He’d never leave Geralt. “Are you a mage?” </p><p>“In a way.” She cocks her head again, almost like she’s listening for something. “Perhaps in the way you are a witcher.” </p><p>Jaskier blinks. “You’re a mage’s…bard?” </p><p>She laughs. "If you like." </p><p>"Were you the one who pulled him out of the bath?" </p><p>“I was worried he’d get a chill, what with you falling asleep on the job.”  </p><p>Jaskier considers asking her how she managed to get him out all by herself, but he imagines he’ll simply be offered more non-answers. More questions for questions. </p><p>So he asks the only thing that really matters at this point. </p><p>“What do you want?” </p><p>Whatever she’s been smoking seems to have burned out. It occurs to Jaskier that it has no smell, and that it burns with a strange white smoke. “I want to help. Well, right now I want you to go into the kitchen and find two bottles. One is a vial about the size of your little finger, and blue. The other is squat and square, green. Find them and bring them out to me.” When Jaskier doesn’t move, she snaps her fingers. “Well?” </p><p>He lets out a breath and troops back inside, damning every mage to hell and back again. He finds the bottles easily, the silence of the kitchen and the dark, yawning mouth of the oven eerie now that he knows why they are that way. </p><p>“The blue bottle is to wake him,” the Not-An-Inkeeper instructs him upon his return. “Put no more than two drops on his tongue. It would counteract even the strongest enchanted sleep.” She relights her pipe. Jaskier does not remember watching her pack it with anything new. “The green bottle is to burn the poison out of his blood. However.” She crosses one leg over the other. “—You need to administer it while his heart rate is elevated. Otherwise it will sit stagnant and make matters worse.” </p><p>“His heart? How?” Jaskier tries not to yell out his frustration. “He’s asleep, I can’t ride him across the paddock like a horse!” </p><p>The Not-An-Inkeeper, Not-Quite-A-Mage lifts her eyebrows. Heat hits Jaskier’s cheeks as he realizes the easiest track to take here. </p><p>“You seem like a resourceful man, Bard of the Witcher.” She puts her pipe back in her mouth. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” </p><p>-</p><p>It’s not like Jaskier hasn’t thought about it. He has. Often. If he’s being honest, it is a thrum of background tension to most things he does, his daily interactions with Geralt. This isn’t unusual for Jaskier; he makes it a point to imagine everyone he meets naked at least once, just to be thorough. And with Geralt he hasn’t had to do much imagining. When you spend as much time on the road and in close quarters, modesty can only hold out for so long. </p><p>So sure, he wants Geralt. Sure, he’d like to run his fingers through that soft white hair, feel the shift of hard muscle under his palms. But he’d also love to be rich and flutter like a sparrow across the sparkling blue sky. Just a flight of fancy, something to keep him warm on cold nights. </p><p>Now, he sits on the end of the bed, trying to nerve himself up. <i>Come on, Jaskier.</i> </p><p>He tips the witcher onto his back, and opens his mouth. The heat coming off his body is intense, and he still smells of verbena. His eyes move restlessly under their lids. It is clear just to look at him that this is no normal slumber. </p><p>Unstopping the blue vial, Jaskier drips the two requisite drops onto Geralt’s tongue. He massages his throat to make sure he swallows, and for some reason the soft flesh and rasp of stubble against his fingertips sends a hot kick low in his gut. Geralt’s eyes snap open. He grabs Jaskier wrist. </p><p>“Geralt! It’s me!” Jaskier yelps and braces for the crackle and snap of bones, but all Geralt manages is a weak squeeze before his fingers slip away. </p><p>“Jaskier..?” A pair of burnished gold eyes that to this day Jaskier still has not managed to accurately describe in words. “Why do I feel like I’m made of rocks?” </p><p>“Uh. Long story.” Jaskier gives it his best go. “You were nicked by the manticore’s tail, and it poisoned you. But don’t worry! You killed it! I had to leave it behind, though, seeing as aforementioned nicking left you completely comatose. I got you on Raoch, climbed up behind you, and stopped at the first public house I could find, which just so happened to be completely empty save for a woman with one eye who might be a mage, and might be a ghost, and might just be frightfully strong. She gave me a potion to burn the poison out of you but in order to do it I’ll have to tug you off.” </p><p>There. Not the most succinct synopsis he’s ever given, but certainly not the worst. </p><p>Geralt goes almost crosseyed as he struggles with both this sudden influx of information and whatever the poison is doubtless doing to his insides. “Hm.” </p><p>“Yes, hm. And is hm all you’ve got to say?” Jaskier’s voice cracks a bit at the end. </p><p>“And why do you need to…?” Geralt makes an unambiguous motion. It makes Jaskier flush like a schoolmarm. </p><p>“Your, um, heart rate needs to be up. Elevated! She said your heart has to be elevated.” His is certainly elevated, a true pity that he isn’t the one who needs the potion.  “I promise that if there were any other possible solution, witcher, I would absolutely take it.” </p><p>Geralt lets himself sink back down to on the pillows. “I’m flattered.” </p><p>“I’m not, you know I don’t—it isn’t that—.” Jaskier sees Geralt’s mouth twitching. He breathes out “You’re making fun of me.” </p><p>“A little.” He searches Jaskier’s face. Jaskier attempts to convey the right combination of eagerness and reticence. Whatever it is Geralt is looking for, he must fine it, because he says, “Well, you’re welcome to try, although I am not feeling particularly amorous at the moment, more like—.” </p><p>“Like you’re made of rocks.”</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“Al—alright.” He swallows. He knows he is not exactly projecting an air of confidence. </p><p>He drags his eyes away from Geralt’s face, figuring he might as well figure out what he’s working with here. Not that he hasn’t seen it before, but never with Geralt so close, never with the knowledge that he can touch. His cock is soft and shrunken against his thigh, <i>and why wouldn’t it be, Jaskier? He’s been poisoned, and you haven’t done anything yet!&gt;/i&gt;</i></p><p>
He is an excellent lover. Jaskier prides himself on being able to work a woman up to near trembling without so much as getting a finger in her underthings. It’s all about soft touches and words, the meltingly sweet promise of impossible pleasures if only she lets him closer. 

</p><p>
 All of that feels…well, it’s one thing to help Geralt rub one out and quite another to gently kiss the nape of his neck and tell him that he’s beautiful. Which…he is beautiful, and Jaskier wouldn’t mind kissing his neck. Or any other part of him. 
</p><p>
 “I’m not sure…” 

</p><p>
Geralt rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you a poet? Seduce me.” 
</p><p>
Jaskier’s laugh is half-choked. “Should I use my mouth?” 
</p><p>
Geralt looks at him. “I suppose that is a sort of poetry.” His shoulders bulge as he shifts against the mattress. “I’m not going to say no, Jaskier.” His voice drops a register. “And I’m not in any position to stop you.” 

</p><p>
Jaskier exhales. He takes both of Geralt’s wrists in his hands, hardly able to believe it when he is allowed to pin both of them up above his head. It feels a bit like guiding Roach, handling something much wilder and more powerful than himself. “Yes, that’s true. I could…have anything I want from you.” 
</p><p>
 Heat flashes in Geralt’s eyes and his hips give a little twist. Not quite so soft as he was before. “You like that?” He tightens his fingers just the slightest bit, feeling the strain in Geralt’s wrists. 
</p><p>
His voice rumbles low in his throat. “Don’t you?” 
</p><p>
"You mean, do I like being held down, or do I like what I’m doing to you right now? Because they’re very different—.” 
</p><p>
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. “Shut up.” 
</p><p>
"I thought you wanted me to seduce—.” 
</p><p>
Geralt arches up to bring their mouths together, and Jaskier kisses him, letting go of his wrists to cup his jaw and brace his fingers around his vulnerable throat. Geralt’s mouth opens in an easy rush, and Jaskier moans. He can’t help himself. Geralt’s body feels rigid and hard beneath him, a mountain that he has climbed, a conqueror here to plant a flag. He almost giggles. He’ll get a few songs out of this, at the very least. 
</p><p>
He fumbles for the oil he’d fished from their pack. It is odorless and colorless, and Jaskier isn’t sure what it’s for. It might even be for this. He pours too much of it into his hands, spills it on Geralt’s stomach, rubs it in to make his skin shine. His sleeves trail, so he quickly pulls at the laces at his throat, yanking it over his head so quickly he feels the prickle of static in his hair. 
</p><p>
It is the most ungainly and least sensuous undressing Jaskier has ever done for an audience, but Geralt’s attention makes him hot all over and he doesn’t want to make him wait. He hesitates for just a moment with his breeches, though. Once he takes those off this will truly tip over into something other than medicinal. Although he supposes it already has, what with Geralt sucking so eagerly on his tongue.
</p><p>
He gets back on the bed with only a slightly over-eager bounce. Geralt is hard and getting harder, and when Jaskier wraps a slick hand around him he bucks with a harsh grunt. He tries to put some weight on him, push him back against the bed; he’d seemed to like that. All in all he feels the way an lizard might if it tried to pin a dragon to a cushion. But Geralt pushes into his grip, digging his good heel into the mattress. His cock is thick and dripping, dark pink at the tip, and Jaskier really does want to get him in his mouth. 
</p><p>
But he also doesn’t want to look away, doesn’t want to break whatever spell has the white wolf, Geralt of Rivia, helpless in his hands, mouth going slack with pleasure. He bites at his neck, licking across his frantic pulse, rubbing his palm across the head of his cock, smearing fluid, making his hips jump and shake. 
</p><p>
“Yes, come on.” He nips at Geralt’s plump bottom lip. “Come on—.” 
</p><p>
Geralt’s kisses were already hungry, but as he starts to come they turn ravenous, punishing as he gasps into Jaskier’s mouth. 
</p><p>
“Shit.” Jaskier gropes for the second vial, the green one, remembering too late what this was all supposed to be about. Hot fluid bursts over his fingers, but he misses watching Geralt’s back arch and his eyes close, feeling frantically across his chest for his heartbeat. It’s fast, but is it fast enough, was he supposed to use it before he came, or— 
</p><p>
 “Fuck, Geralt, I forgot to—.” 
</p><p>
Geralt’s eyes burn, intent, as he reaches down for the plain oil, popping the stopper out with one finger. 
</p><p>
“Wait, that’s just slick, that’s not the potion—oh.” 
</p><p>
Geralt pours oil into his hand and spreads his legs. Jaskier feels like he might ignite, watching the witcher push two slick fingers into himself, tendons pulling in his neck, thighs twitching. His cock hasn’t softened in the slightest, and Jaskier leans in to lap at the sticky, wet head. Geralt gasps his name and claws at his shoulder, pulling him closer, guiding him between his legs. Jaskier scrambles to pour the last of the oil onto himself, bucking into his own hand.

</p><p>
“Another chance,” Geralt grits out, before wrapping his legs around his waist. “Now fuck me.” 
</p><p>
In the end he almost forgets a second time, Geralt is so hot and consuming around him, the banked heat of his eyes deep enough to get lost in. But he feels the thundering of his heart, their chests pushed together, and he fumbles the vial open and pushes it against Geralt’s lips. He isn’t sure how much he’s supposed to drink, she hadn’t said, but there isn’t much in there to begin with. Geralt gulps it down. 
</p><p>
 “Geralt—.” Jaskier groans as a ripple goes through the witcher’s body and he tightens down. “<i>Fuck</i>—. “
</p><p>
 How long will it take before the potion burns the poison out? How will he know—
</p><p>
Geralt grabs his ass, two tight handfuls, urging him forward. The renewed strength is unmistakable, the message clear—<i>fuck me harder.</i> 
</p><p>
Jaskier does, and when he finishes he collapses on top of Geralt with a groan of surrender, body lit up, every nerve glowing. 
</p><p>
He is absolutely going to write a song about this. Just for him, and maybe Geralt. 
</p><p>
"You’re magnificent,” he murmurs against Geralt’s neck. “But I’m sure lots of people tell you that when they’re done fucking you in the ass.” 
</p><p>
Geralt snorts. He is filthy, hair pushed back out of his eyes with sweat. Jaskier wonders if it would be alright to kiss him, then stops wondering and does it. Geralt’s mouth opens with an encouraging noise, his fingers anchoring in the hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck. The topography of his body across the bed makes Jaskier think of a housecat lazing in the sun. 
</p><p>
 “Do you think your ghost mage innkeeper could be persuaded to bring hot water?” Geralt’s fingers linger on Jaskier’s neck, possessive. Jaskier is momentarily overwhelmed by a hard tug of tenderness in his chest. 
</p><p>
“Maybe,” he says softly. “I sure paid her enough for the room.” 
</p><p>
Geralt’s hand moves down Jaskier’s side, raising gooseflesh. “What does a ghost need with coin?” 
</p><p>
“I don’t know, ghost things?” Jaskier hums and basks in the warm weight of the hand on his hip. “I’ll go ask. In a minute.”
</p>
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